Rockstar Savages (Forbidden Chords Book 3) Read online

  Rockstar Savages

  Ja’Nese Dixon

  ROCKSTAR SAVAGES. Copyright © 2019 by Ja’Nese Dixon

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organization and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-950405-06-0 (paperback)

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Also by Ja’Nese Dixon

  Read the Series

  Forbidden Chords Series (Contemporary Romance)

  Rockstar Secrets (Book 1)

  Rockstar Sinners (Book 2)

  Rockstar Savages (Book 3)

  Contents

  About Rockstar Savages

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  The Men of Rockstar Entertainment

  Join My Newsletter

  SNEAK PEEK: Rockstar Secrets

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Also by Ja’Nese Dixon

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  He’s found something he wants more than money…

  Jamal "Midas" Washington is a billionaire, not by birth, but through strategically building each deal, each investment, each partnership. Each move him further from his childhood in the foster care system. He’s determined to remain a bachelor until he sees her. And in all of his planning, he never saw her coming.

  Hip-Hop artist, Carmela “La Luvie” Franklin, is a sexy tomboy making moves in the industry while carrying her city on her back, all to fund Crescendo, her nonprofit offering NOLA youth the tech it needs to succeed. So when a quarter of a million dollars goes missing, Carmela reaches out to Rockstar Entertainment. They send a sexy, chocolate drop, bald brotha who is as smart as he’s fine.

  Steamy tour nights and unforgettable days erect a concrete wall between Carmela and her team. It will take a savage, prepared to win at any cost, to uncover the thief before the news reaches her fans and Carmela loses everything she’s worked for.

  And as far as Jamal is concerned, what Carmela wants, Carmela gets…including his heart if he’s not careful.

  Chapter 1

  Why am I not happy? Carmela Franklin looked around the rehearsal hall. The unmarked warehouse outside New Orleans catered to artists and bands preparing for large shows or tours. Inside, the stadium-size stage faced perfectly arranged folding chairs. The owners provided a professional team overseeing the stage lights, the music, all ensuring a seamless show. Except all their hard work was loss on nearly everyone standing.

  Dancers. Bodyguards. Stagehands. People whose names she’d forgotten because Richard Franklin, her father and manager, hired and fired them so fast she’d lost track.

  Carmela tuned him out taking in the sight and her life. He was also her manager, and right now, she wanted to disappear or strangled him or both. But that wasn't possible. No, she’d handle it and him like always.

  “Richard, is all of this necessary?” Her hand motioned to the sea of hired people.

  “Yes, ain’t nothing less than the best for my baby girl.” He smiled so wide she thought his face would break in two. She’d be so lucky.

  “How much is this costing me?” She said beneath her breath watching the highfalutin choreographer he’d flown in from Los Angeles click-clacked off the stage with several professional dancers dressed in sports bras and little shorts. She shook her head wondering, how in the world they danced high heels?

  “La you worry too much.” His eyes twinkled like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat buffet. “You, baby, are a superstar.” He hands spread wide in the air mimicking a grand marque. “Did you see Nicki Minaj's performance at the awards? What about Cardi B? They filled the stage with dancers and props. And they took home the awards. That should be you La.” He placed a hand on his hip, jabbing a finger in her direction. “And it will be you. We just have to upgrade your showmanship.“

  Richard rambled on and on about his plans to upgrade the show, the stage, the lights, the production. That was her signal to tune him out again.

  No one stops to think, who pays for it all?

  Nicki Minaj, Cardi B, and another those “superstar” female hip hop artists he mentioned are backed by major record labels. But not Carmela, this whole operation ran purely on the sweat off her back.

  Every dollar. Every cent. And she was damned tired of it.

  Richard took a breath after rattling on about the need for live animals and new costumes to glanced over at the door. A small army of men and women dressed in white coats entered the side door.

  “Perfect.” He glanced at his watch. “Right on time, the food is here.”

  Richard smiled at Carmela and walked away. She contemplated all the way she’d have to derail this magnificent plan of his. How she’d have to play the parent to her parent.

  Carmela shook her head and sat on the cold hard stage with her legs crossed, balancing the expensive microphone on her knee.

  High-paid choreographer. Half-naked dancers. Fancy-ass food. He probably paid for the best spread, catered by the most exclusive restaurant in New Orleans.

  Thank you Richard!

  Carmela laughed to keep from screaming and throwing the microphone across the room like a two-year old throwing a tantrum. A heavy sigh escaped.

  The white coats marched in and out like ants, holding platters and covered trays filling the table with food. The cloth covered table appeared out of nowhere on the back wall and it seemed to extend a mile as a line of people anxiously waited. The smell of spicy cajun seasoning filled the air and as if on cue the DJ changed her instrumental track to zydeco music. The festive vibe mixed with the piano accordion pumping through the state of the art sound system did nothing to lighten her mood.

  It's a circus and she’s the ringmaster—no, he’s the ring master.

  Carmela rolled her eyes as her dad stood in the middle of a captive audience of giggling dancers. His voice boomed over the loud music and endless chatter, bragging about another deal he’d secured. According to him, they had to celebrate their monumental fan funded project.

  The Luvie Squad—her loyal fans—had raised over a half million dollars. And now, she had to prepare for a special concert just for them. A concert she’d hold on the steps of their new home for Crescendo.

  Carmela had ten days to prepare for the concert. Twenty four days until the third payout from the crowd-funding site was scheduled to deposit into her bank accoun
t. Could they last four weeks without that money? Not if her father kept spending money like they had it.

  Her head ached from the numbers swished around in her head like a hypnotic swirl.

  The irony of her situation didn’t miss her. She’d managed to raise a million dollars, but she hadn’t seen a real paycheck in years. Not with management, lawyers, staff, expenses, equipment, insurance, mortgages, and fancy-ass food.

  She glanced over at the festivities totally detached. Today was supposed to focus on celebrating the fans not finding another reason to party and spend money they didn’t have. But apparently, she was the only one who got that memo.

  “What is that smile about?”

  “What smile?” Carmela grumbled glancing up at her brother and road manager, Gabriel Franklin.

  Gabriel handed her a can soda and a hot styrofoam plate overflowing with rice dressing, shrimp, steamed red potatoes, fried catfish and corn on the cob.

  “The smile hiding behind that hideous frown.” He chuckled, sitting on the floor beside her.

  “I’m just marveling at the three ring circus your father Richard managed to construct.”

  “Marvel all you want. You do know this is all on your dime.” He swung a knowing finger around the room.

  “Gabriel, don’t.” She shrugged, popping the can open. “I tell him we need to budget. And what does he do? He hires,” she used her fork to count out the dancers standing in line for seconds, “fifteen dancers for a small show.”

  Carmela could explode into a billion particles of dust, and gladly blow this joint. The weight of her life weighed ten times the maximum limit. What she wouldn’t give to get far, far, away for all of it.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Gabriel pulled Carmela up to her feet and she grabbed her plate, crushing the can against her body. “Where are we going?” She followed him down a wide hallway with bare walls.

  “There are dressing rooms back here somewhere. Might as well use one.” His head darted back and forth. He opened several doors unsuccessful in his quest until he smiled. “Aha, welcome.”

  Gabriel stepped aside. Carmela entered the sparsely decorated room, leaving the loud chatter and music behind. The cream walls held paintings of New Orleans streets filled with people and music. Faces of every hue were reflected, adorned in colorful attire. Carmela smiled.

  “I’ll be back. We need napkins.” She looked over her shoulder, nodding her acknowledgment. Gabriel placed his plate on the coffee table before slipping out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Carmela turned on the flat screen tv letting the last hush of the outside noise fade.

  “Cameron, you and your team seem to be shining stars in the industry right now.” A woman reporter said. “You’ve launched an award-winning independent label, that manages to compete with the majors, in less than three years. It’s impressive. What can we expect next?”

  “More music, of course.” He responded with focused eyes on the reporter.

  “What about your philanthropy efforts? Are you planning to expand there too?”

  “We’re always interested in giving to those in need, especially those finding it hard to secure traditional grants and funding.”

  Carmela lowered to the black leather couch reading his name at the bottom of the screen.

  “Cameron Carter, founder and CEO of Rockstar Entertainment,” Carmela whispered. Something told her to remember that name.

  The interview continued as Carmela combed her mind for traces of any memories of Rockstar Entertainment. It didn’t ring a bell. But if BET was featuring the interview, she assumed they worked with R&B artists.

  When she glanced back up the interview was over. A pair of women sat in a news room recapping the information they learned.

  “RSE is doing a phenomenal job on the charts and in the community. They support two nonprofit organizations, Harmony Dance, a dance academy for at-risk youth in Houston, Texas and Juanita’s Casa, a women’s and children’s shelter in Austin, Texas.”

  “You don’t hear that often.” They shared a laugh.

  “No. We don’t. But it would be nice to hear about more labels giving back to the communities supporting their music.”

  “I agree Gayle.” The reporter turned back to the camera. “We interviewed Mr. Carter before RSE signed its latest artist Lady Bird, who is now married to the music executive after being attacked by the founder of Southern Sounds. We’d like to send our heartfelt congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Carter. Back to you Malcolm.”

  Lady Bird!

  That name definitely sounded familiar. Carmela pulled out her cellphone typing in “Rockstar Entertainment.”

  “I brought you some cake.” Gabriel sat next to her glancing over her shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

  “What do you know about Rockstar Entertainment?” She asked waiting for the search results to load.

  Gabriel sat back whipping his mouth with a napkin. “I think they’re in Houston or Atlanta. You remember Marques?”

  “From Essence Festival?”

  Gabriel nodded, “He’s their artist.” He shoveled more food in his mouth.

  “Hum.” Carmela sat back.

  “So La,” he leaned forward. “I went by the construction site this morning.”

  “Did you take pictures?” She reached for his phone.

  “No.”

  “No?” Her head snapped back.

  “La, calm down.” Gabriel looked over at the closed door, as if ensuring they were alone. “The foreman wants to talk with you and you only. He won’t deal with Richard anymore either.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s all he told me.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” They had been on the road performing for four months straight, checking in with Richard weekly. “How did it look? And don’t lie Gabriel.”

  “It looks the exact same to me.”

  “The same?” Her heart dropped. “It’s been months. We’ve spent a quarter of a million dollar—” The words lodged in her throat. The project felt like a vampire draining her dry and she didn’t know how much longer she could do this.

  “Let me talk with Richard.”

  “No.” Carmela said more forcefully than she intended. “I’ll call the foreman tonight.” She forced a smile to her face. This wasn’t Gabriel’s problem but hers. “Now, let’s get out there and get this rehearsal done.”

  Gabriel gathered their garbage. They walked the long hallway back to the stage. She started performing professionally as La Luvie at the age fourteen, which made her a hip hop veteran at the young age of twenty-seven.

  People called her a southern prodigy. But somewhere along the way music stopped being fun. It wasn’t about lyrics and rhymes but paychecks and bills.

  Endless bills.

  And no matter how many gigs, and how many stages, and how many shows she couldn’t seem to dig her way out.

  La Luvie was killing her.

  Carmela walked onto the stage stopping behind the microphone stand. Her eyes met Richard’s across the room.

  “Hey sweetheart, you ready?” Richard crossed the room and the people parted. He was her father, and her gravedigger, luxuriating on her dime.

  “Take it from the top.” Carmela said into the microphone, not trusting herself to talk with him. She watched as people dropped plates in the trash. Dancers returned and the choreographer stood in front of the stage.

  The beat dropped. Carmela channeled La Luvie. A woman rough around the edges but all heart.

  Carmela performed every song without thought. She gripped the shiny mic to her mouth, leaning to the side, with her hand anchored on her thigh, pronouncing every word and syllable with her NOLA accent thick. Careful not to bend her knees or lower to the floor, like usual, or else her dress—an oversized Saints sweatshirt—would expose her bare thighs. She tossed her waist length dreadlocks to the side with her hand folded to the side like a handgu
n killing her competition.

  Carmela balanced her content between repping her hood and inspiring the youth of New Orleans. She’d started in the projects and thankfully music changed it all.

  That truth kept her coming back to the mic. Kept her striving to reach the youth with options to get a better education and to aspire for more. It was the least she could do for New Orleans. The only home she’d ever known. The place she wanted to live, love, laugh, raise a family, and die.

  “Cut?” The music stopped.

  “This ain’t no movie set.” Carmela turned towards the voice.

  “Can you try to use some of the choreography I taught you?” High highfalutin pushed her curly fro back from her face.

  “I don’t do choreography. I rap. They dance.”

  Carmela watched the choreographer storm off in Richard’s direction. She had to find a way to evacuate this circus because she couldn’t take it anymore. Things had to change around here, pronto.

  Chapter 2

  Time is money. A motto Jamal Washington adopted the moment he set his sight on becoming a black billionaire, thanks to a book from the public library. It was a manta he engraved in his DNA the moment he realized there was no calvary. No one would help him. No one would save him from the foster care system. He had to save himself.

  He’d prove them all wrong. All of them.

  His motto rang constant and vibrant, steady like a heartbeat serving as his true north star driving Jamal to his goal. He blinked taking a deep breath. He looked out the window of his office, giving his eyes a break. The financial statement on the screen proved he could make something at of less than nothing.